CHAPTER ELEVEN | TRUCK AND TRAILER

when two teammates skate, one directly in front of the other, with the front (truck) pulling the back (trailer).

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          I never thought I'd say something along the lines of blessed be Corinne Fontaine, yet there we were.

          If I wasn't in such a rush to change clothes and get to the clinic as fast as possible, I would have allowed myself to be a tiny bit excited about riding around town with Corinne. I wasn't much of a fan of motorcycles, nor did I understand why people enjoyed nearly falling off from them and putting their lives in danger, but she'd been surprisingly nice about it all. Nice enough to slightly change my opinion of her, but not too nice to raise any suspicions.

          I didn't think Corinne had put this much thought into offering me a ride as I currently was. She was doing something nice, having noticed the state of sheer panic I was in after my own mother hung up the phone on me, and hadn't even asked invasive questions. It had been a lot more than I expected from her, but perhaps it was just the weight of my expectations being lifted.

          She was right where I expected her to be—in the parking lot—albeit wearing fresh clothes. With the days getting shorter and colder, she was slowly pushing her skirts and dresses to the back of her closet, wearing sweaters and jeans instead. It was probably more comfortable to ride a motorcycle while wearing jeans, anyway, and, fortunately, I'd had the decency to make the same decision. She was waiting with two helmets, which made things seem more real than they previously had.

          "You ready to go?" she asked, handing me one of the helmets. I was too overwhelmed to speak, so I just nodded. "Where are we headed off to?"

          I hesitated, then told her the name of the clinic, waiting for a sliver of recognition to cross her eyes as she realized what I was talking about. That never happened; the only thing she did was mount the motorcycle and carefully put on her helmet. She assured me she knew where it was and knew an alternative route that would be shorter and quicker, but didn't ask any questions.

          I was secretly grateful she was being discreet about it, but I didn't say a word about it. Instead, I quietly climbed behind her, stuffing my head inside my designated helmet.

          The only problem was that I wasn't quite sure where to place my hands.

          She had attached a passenger seat to the bike just for me, complete with two handles, one on either side of the seat, and I tentatively curled my fingers around them. The metal was cold to the touch and not entirely uncomfortable, but, if she drove fast—which I knew she did and knew she would—it would put some strain on my wrists. It could also throw me off the bike mid-drive if she made any sharp turns.

          Naturally, she noticed my hesitation, just as she started the engine, and turned around a bit.

          "You need to slide closer to me and actually grab on to me," she advised, voice muffled thanks to the helmet and the rumbling engine. "I don't want you to fall off."

          "What's with the sudden burst of kindness towards me? It sounds so unlike you."

          "Don't read too much into this." Her gloved hands tightened the hold around the hand clutches. "It's called road safety. If anything happens to you while I'm driving, I'll have to be held accountable, and I don't want to lose my license or get suspended from college. Can you please sit properly and hold me?"

          I huffed, but did as I was told. I didn't want to sit too close to her and make us both uncomfortable, but the mere thought of falling off and causing an accident was mortifying, so I chose the lesser of two evils and placed my hands on her waist, holding her just tight enough. I'd be more comfortable if I had a belt to secure me to my seat, as Corinne was so small she almost disappeared on something as big as her bike.

          She sighed. "How does it feel?"

          "Strange," I admitted. "I'm kind of scared I'll crush you."

          Corinne laughed. "Please. You're underestimating me. That's one of the biggest mistakes you can make." I cracked a small smile, even though she couldn't see it. "I usually drive fast and we're in a rush right now, but I'll try to keep the speed down to make things more comfortable for you. Tap me on my right shoulder when you want me to pull over. Signs are important," she added, quickly. "I can look at you through the mirrors, but the helmet makes it hard to see your face, so use your hands instead. Left shoulder if you want me to slow down. The longer we stay here, the faster I'll have to drive if you want to make it in time for . . . whatever it is you need to do. Was I clear?"

          "Oui," I stupidly replied, even though my French was subpar. She scoffed and pressed her foot down on the kick starter. Then, we were off.

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          Thanks to a combination of various miracles and Corinne's reckless driving skills, I made it to the clinic both on time and in one piece.

          My mother wrinkled her nose at the sight of me hopping off a bike, stumbling over my feet because I was not used to sitting on seats that high, but didn't make any snide comments about it. To Corinne's credit, she did try to tell me she'd wait around until I was done running my errands, but she was cut off by my mother slamming the clinic's front door right in her face.

          She wasn't usually this mean, but I never got a chance to apologize to Corinne on her behalf.

          I knew she was just stressed over me nearly being late to family therapy and because it was the very first session, but part of me suspected there was something else going on. She hadn't batted an eye about Theo entering and exiting the family house as she pleased, so surely it wasn't a matter of Corinne being a girl. She didn't know Corinne, either, so it couldn't be personal. I was the only person allowed to be annoyed by Corinne Fontaine, thank you very much, and people had to walk over me and present a list of valid reasons as to why they were annoyed by her.

          The clinic looked almost exactly like I'd imagined it.

          The floors and the walls were pristine, so white they hurt to look at, and the bright primary colors of the armchairs in the waiting room were the only thing throwing me off, as they wouldn't be out of place at a daycare. Everyone was so charmingly polite it scared me, greeting us as we walked past them towards our seats, but I couldn't quite shake off the dreadful feeling at the pit of my stomach.

          Somewhere in this building, Jordan knew we were coming. He probably already knew we were in the building, as no one would schedule a family therapy session without letting him know the exact date and time it would happen. 

          The mere thought of seeing my brother for the first time in two months was nerve wracking, especially when I remembered what had triggered my parents' decision to move to Connecticut. Perhaps he blamed me for the whole ordeal; even though he'd accepted to go into inpatient treatment, this would have never happened had I not talked to Theo. 

          I shifted in my seat—bright-red—pulling down the sleeves of my cardigan. I wish I knew what was expected of me then; I'd always been great at setting up high expectations for myself and chasing them, doing everything in my power to match them. I was dependable. People knew what they were getting out of me, and I was more than happy to provide them with results. Here, I was in unknown territory. That terrified me more than I was willing to admit.

          "Wu family?" a woman called, from the hallway to my right. I leaned forward, craning my neck, and found a colossal woman standing a few feet away, wearing navy and beige. "We're ready for you."

          I wasn't, but it wasn't like I had a choice in the matter. My parents stood up, following the woman towards one of the rooms, and I rushed to go after them, focusing on keeping my breathing steady.

          I couldn't smell anything around me, with everything having been cleaned and disinfected to perfection, but, if I focused enough, I could find some faint traces of lavender. I didn't care for artificial appearances, especially when it was an attempt at supposedly making people comfortable, free of triggers in neutral environments. If anything, removing familiar smells was alienating.

          And then, my home, my person, my brother.

          Even after everything, even after destroying and ruining himself in so many ways, he would never be foreign to me. There was nothing I wanted more than to launch myself into his arms and never let him go, bring him with me back to Yale, fly home to California with him.

          My father's hand on my shoulder steadied me, keeping me where I was, and neither of my parents made a move to greet their son with me being pushed out of the picture. There were unspoken rules I hadn't been informed of—no physical contact—and they seemed to be determined to keep me and Jordan at arm's length from one another. Even so, we had never been particularly warm with each other, preferring cordial nods and words of encouragement—often in the way of backhanded compliments—instead of physical displays of affection.

          "My name is Elizabeth Nguyen, and I'm Jordan's therapist," the woman said, taking turns shaking our hands. "I specialize in cognitive-behavioral therapy and family-based therapy. I'll be working with Jordan most of the time, but you understand it's important in cases of substance abuse that we also include families due to the effect these problems can bring to family dynamics and vice versa. Please, sit."

          I made a mental note to look up family-based therapy as soon as I went back to my dorm, but it was clear why this type of therapy wouldn't work for us. My parents had always been adamant on never admitting they were the problem, ever, and it was always easier to put the blame on other things and other people. Having someone suggest our family dynamic could be a triggering factor for Jordan's problem wouldn't end well for anyone involved.

          So, as Doctor Nguyen spoke and indirectly let everyone know she wouldn't tolerate being interrupted, I looked at Jordan.

          He didn't look that much different from the last time I saw him. There was some life in his eyes now, as opposed to his irises being nothing but two black holes, devoid of emotion, but he was still skeletal, even if he was no longer shaking. He seemed stable enough now, but that was probably because I had seen him at his very worst. I'd been there for the shaking and the sweating, and I'd also been there for the hallucinations and the terrifying moments when I thought his heart would explode. Now, he didn't look healthy by any means, but I'd seen him look much, much worse.

          "Wren," Doctor Nguyen called. I jumped in my seat. "I need you to be present."

          My parents both shot me warning looks. Jordan looked almost apologetic.

          "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm just a bit . . . overwhelmed right now."

          I didn't need to explain why I felt that way, and could only hope she wouldn't push the subject. For a split second, it seemed like she wanted to get more information out of me, but ultimately remembered why we were all there—and it wasn't because of me. Resigned, she turned back to my mother.

          "As I was saying, Mrs. Wu, what has brought you here?" Doctor Nguyen continued. Jordan's eyes met mine once again and one of the corners of his mouth rose almost imperceptibly. It brought me back to family dinners, with our extended family discussing important matters—economy, politics—and the two of us never bothering to partake in those conversations.

          "Well, Jordan, of course," my mother replied. She had crossed her legs, hands folded over her knees. "Jordan's problem."

          "I see. Mr. Wu?"

          My father rubbed the side of his neck. "Yeah. It's that. We moved to Connecticut because we found this clinic and thought . . . we thought it would help. We're here to help Jordan."

          Doctor Nguyen turned to me. My breath got hitched in my throat.

          "We're here to help Jordan," I echoed. My father had worded it perfectly.

          The setting was different than everything I'd ever seen. There were far more chairs than one would expect to see in a therapeutic office, organized in a circle, and a large mirror, covering the entire width of a wall, stood tall behind Doctor Nguyen. I avoided looking its way as often as possible.

          "So, tell me how this whole situation started. What happened? How did we get here?"

          "Everything was fine until Jordan got hurt," my mother explained, before any of us had a chance to speak. "He used to be fine. He was great. He was popular, and one hell of a hockey player. He used to be really, really good. We have his trophies all over the house." Jordan shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable, but my mother's face was glittering with pride. I didn't doubt Doctor Nguyen had noticed it. "Then, he got hurt on the ice. The doctors . . . the doctors said it was highly unlikely he would ever skate again, and he started to spiral. He shut down and shut us off. We barely saw him during the day, but heard him pacing around the house at night. Then, he started going out, more frequently as time went by, and people stopped joining him. No one stopped by to pick him up. Whenever Wren came home from college, not even she could reach him, and she eventually stopped skating, too. It was their thing, you know?" She paused to glance my way and all I could do was stare back at disbelief. Skating being our thing was putting it mildly. "We tried therapy. We tried rehab. Nothing worked. Whenever we thought things couldn't get any worse, they did. Then, we heard he'd thrown a bottle at her, at his sister, and we . . . we realized just how dangerous it was for both of them to be living like that. We found this clinic, made the arrangements, and moved. Here we are."

          She had conveniently left out most of the important details and focused only on the objective parts of it all, the ones she had seen. She hadn't spoken at all about the sheer agony I was in every single day before coming to Connecticut, when I wondered if I'd come home to a dead Jordan or not. Running the risk of minimizing my parents' experiences with nearly losing their son, I was frustrated. They didn't know what it had been like for me, and it seemed like they didn't even care.

          I exhaled.

          I knew I was doing a pretty shitty job at behaving appropriately during a therapy appointment, and I could only imagine the damage it was doing to our relationships and to Jordan. Certainly Doctor Nguyen would write an entire report about it, but I couldn't simply sit still and have the past few years of my life be tossed aside and minimized.

         It wasn't just skating. It was about losing my brother while he was still standing, breathing next to me.

          At the end, Doctor Nguyen explained there was no set number of appointments, but that we would be notified whenever our presence was required. It was guaranteed we'd all have to come at all times—sometimes it would be just them, just one of them, or even just me—but it would all become clearer as the therapeutic process went on. I dozed off, her voice easily blurring into the background, and decided to break all the rules.

          I leaned to the side and wrapped my arms around my brother as tightly as his frail state would allow me. I couldn't stay there for long, as this type of contact was strictly forbidden, but no person in this building knew him better than I did. I knew he needed me there, regardless of how angry he could be. I didn't care.

          I couldn't.

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me: takes one (1) family therapy course in college and hates it

me: i'm qualified!

p.s. this is a joke but remember i have an actual master's degree. thanks